


The Day After

by golden_bastet



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_bastet/pseuds/golden_bastet
Summary: Sometimes, Christmas is a little late.
Kudos: 15





	The Day After

**12/24**

“Ho-ho-ho!”

Doyle perked up at the sounds of the holiday filtering through the window. “About time,” he muttered, almost to someone else, and started towards the door; then he remembered how wrong that was and folded back onto the sofa.

Christmas Eve. Bloody Christmas Eve. It was bloody Christmas Eve, and he was sat alone, with not much beyond the telly, a week-old _News of the World_ , and two bottles of Old Speckled Hen – some new beer and the only thing remaining on the off-licence shelves - for company.

Bloody Christmas alone, and it was the fault of his errant partner.

Oh, it hadn’t started out like this, no. A week back, they’d found themselves absent from the posted duty roster for the end of the month.

They were skeptical - rosters were known to change all the time, and emergencies crept up with more frequency than the Cow’s bottle of malt scotch whisky - but they still imagined what time off at Christmas would look like.

“A tree. Nothing too big; that would just get in the way,” Doyle offered, thinking of the effort his mother had made with little at hand. “But a tree, fairy lights and tinsel, of course.”

“Roast goose.” Bodie got down to the important things. “Mince pie, as well. Mind, your gift from Father Christmas will be the parsnips, and you're welcome to them.”

“It’s your diet that will fell you, mate, not a bloody bullet.”

“Not me. My body is a finely tuned machine; absorbs anything.”

“Riiiight. I’ve seen the tiniest signs of a pouch forming on that finely tuned machine.”

Bodie gave the briefly glance towards his midsection, and then - “you never did, Doyle. You wouldn’t let me live that down. Anyway, my job is to watch your back. Can’t do that if I’m out of shape.”

There was a brief silence as they pondered the seriousness of the statement; and then: “Well, anyway, need to hear the Queen,” Bodie continued. “And then Morecambe and Wise. Though Eric had a heart attack, no?”

“He did, but he must be well enough; paper had them on the schedule for Christmas.”

“There you have it, then - Liz, Eric and Ern. The bookends to the Christmas Day proceedings.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “Think most kids would be more focused on the prezzies. Surprised you haven’t brought that up.”

“Well, that’s in the morning. All things in due time.”

**12/25**

Christmas morning, and Doyle was already through most of a bottle of the malt scotch he usually kept at the back of the cabinet.

The thing was, he was no longer sure why.

The night before he'd been thinking about – something. Being alone at Christmas, he supposed, through the disjointed thoughts working through his brain. Which normally would not bother him, but for some reason it did now. There was no company around.

_Oh yeah, no Bodie._

No real or pretend holiday; nothing at all.

Also, an obbo. A stakeout. 

His idiotic partner. Had promised to… promised to _something._ Doyle just couldn’t remember what at the moment.

Though he wasn’t pissed. Oh, no. Could hold his liquor, he could.

And he remembered his so-called partner hadn’t kept his promise, whatever it was.

Let’s see… _were in the car, at the warehouse…_ _waiting for Curran to show,_ _talkin’ ‘bout birds…_ _Bodie_ _had some_ _new bird,_ _Erin - but lookin’ at me - really lookin’ at me - like he could melt me with his eyes. He went into just enough detail, 'n no more; but all the things he talked about Erin, it sounded like e’ was talking’ bout -_ _me_ _._

“ _Yeah, reddish hair with a bit of a curl, green eyes. Trim in all the right places. And those lips? Perfect bows. Sure they'll be like a fine wine. Not sure what would be better – dinner, or her.”_

_And Bodie had leered at Doyle._

“ _That would be my Christmas wish this year. The right person in my bed.”_

“Dammit, Bodie, not a shirt lifter! Not a BIRD!” He wanted to throw the glass at the wall, but he wasn’t that drunk. Yet.

He tossed back what remained in his glass.

 _Dammit… never a bird._ He’d punch out Bodie’s lights for suggesting that.

But that hadn't been the end; not by any stretch. It had only gotten worse. As Doyle turned back to the warehouse, at a loss for words, Curran and two of his lot had come running out of the warehouse, and they'd hoofed it in pursuit.

_Running, and the idiots had ducked into another warehouse. They'd signalled to each other, slipping in and separating. He'd peaked around a corner to find one of the goons, gun out and a bullet whizzing through the air where he'd just been; it was easy enough to swing back out and bring him down. And within a minute he heard a tussle and a grunt, and a quick whistle; Bodie had gotten one of the others, secured him to take him out of the fight._

_But the third was elusive, slinking somewhere through the warehouse._

_The dance continued, silently, Doyle primed and ready to go. He peered around a corner, saw Bodie cross further down, slowly moving. Curran moved into the row, not seeing him, but definitely seeing Bodie. Curran stopped, aimed at Bodie -_

“ _Curran! DROP IT!”_

_Curran turned -_

_And Doyle's gun seized._

_Curran grinned at him, turned back to Bodie -_

_And the blast of a gun felled him._

Doyle remembered the taste in his mouth – of anger and frustration. Of fear. Of the loss of Bodie.

And truthfully? He was drunk enough to consider Bodie's other hint. If it were Bodie.

And maybe that was what had thrown him off the most.

He grabbed the half-filled bottle, and twisted the top off.

**12/26**

Stillness was all there was in Doyle's world.

Stillness - and a slight tickling at his nose.

He instinctively swatted at the sensation, willing it to go away and leave him in peace.

“C’mon, Angelfish; thought you could hold your liqueur better than that. Though if this is how well you do, maybe you shouldn’t.”

The voice whispered at him, smug, teasing. A finger poked at him.

“G'way. I'm right and proper drunk now. Happy Christmas to me.”

“Get up, sleepyhead,“ floated above him, on the edge of his stillness.

Doyle waved his arm one more time, groaned, then let his arm flop over his head to shut out the world. “Go ‘way. You're not real.”

“Wakey-wakey, Raymond Doyle… S’Boxing Day. Time for your rations from the Cow.”

“Now I know I’ve lost it,” muttered Doyle. “Cause I’m imaginin’ he’s here.”

“I am, Doyle - came back to you in all my glory.”

“Who? The Cow?’ A bloodshot eye creaked open.

“No, berk. Your partner.”

“Right. Thought you'd be off with Erin about now.”

“Got a call from the Cow on the eve of. Spent a very Happy Crimbo up north begging Stella O’Shea for a last dance. In about three inches of slush. Without my boots. So there’s your bird for you.”

Given his current state, Doyle didn't whistle, but he did look up at the figure. “Cowley’s Queen of the IRA. Ruined your good shoes for you, then, did she?”

“C’mon, I know just the thing for you.” Bodie tugged in the direction of the kitchenette, albeit gently. “Get some coffee and a full english into you, a bang-up breakfast, you’ll be as good as new.”

“I may never feel as good as that in this lifetime,” Doyle muttered; but he levered himself up, only wincing slightly at the pounding in his head.

A cuppa and a full plate later, Doyle did feel like life was restarting. He felt doubly refreshed by the man seated across the table from him, crazy boyish grin across his visage as he tucked into his own plate..

“So, you mentioned something about Christmas with the Cow?”

“Yeah – he grabbed me while I was calling Erin, told me I was on my way to visit Stella.”

“The one and only. I remember a mention or two of her earlier.”

“Yes. Told me I was to do a Father Christmas, escort her to a dace in Interrogation straightaway. Go straight there, do not pass go, do not collect 200.”

“Did you get to her?”

“I did indeed, got her, brought her in, surprisingly no complications. The reindeer were quite cooperative, too. Then got out and headed directly over here.” He looked expectantly at Doyle.

“Well, then, doing fine here, just a little too much celebration yesterday. Liz and I couldn't wait for you.”

“Ah, of course. Made a night of it, did you? Who needs Philip, then.”

“Indeed.”

Bodie reached forward and picked up Doyle's cleaned plate. “All done then?”

“Yes, Mom. But where is Bodie and what did you do with him?”

“Just looking after you old son, because you are a sight at the moment.” He was gentle about it – as gentle as Bodie ever got.

“Well, I'm fine now. And… thanks.” Doyle paused for a moment. _Duty's done; he'll be off to Erin soon enough._ “You'd best get going, then.”

“Go?” Bodie seemed genuinely confused.

“You were looking for Erin when the Cow called, no?”

“Actually, yes.” Thought Bodie didn't seem rushed at all.

“Expect she'll bee a little upset by now. Major holiday passing, no word from you.”

“Probably.” Bodie ran some water over the plates, and added the frying pan into the sink.

“What about your prezzie from Erin?”

“Well,...” Bodie looked slightly sheepish.

“Well, what? You went on about her at length. Couldn't wait to see her.” Doyle was feeling better as the minutes passed, and wasn't about to let Bodie off the hook.

“Was about to tell her I wouldn't be stopping by... Thought I'd come over here after all.”

“So Cowley did your heavy lifting for you?”

“One way to put it.”

“Well, then.” Doyle straightened up in his chair. “Still the holidays. We'll get a takeaway and see what's on tonight, have our own Christmas.”

He had no idea how any of this would turn out. But this was Bodie, after all. His partner. It would be okay.

Christmas was looking up after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Discovered in an LJ Christmas challenge.


End file.
